Several months later, Willie Michaels told me his sister Nell had it from a reliable source that Ellen had been sweet on me for years, but thought my bearing to be austere and was a little intimidated by it. Once I found that out, I tried to show a lighter side around her, joking, teasing, and smiling smiles I hoped didn’t look too phony.
But, she was only 17, so I thought I should give her a little time to finish her schooling before attempting to court her, so I spent the better part of a year being satisfied with flirtatious exchanges and glances across the room. In that time I worked even harder than before, trying to make my house more suitable for a woman, trying to squeeze a little bit more yield out of the land to pad my pockets.
My icy resolve to hold off on asking to court her dripped away with every warm smile she shone at me, and her every innocent, endearing gesture and mannerism rendered me helpless. I had thought that the spring of 1940, when she turned 18, would be a good time and appropriate season to pursue her in earnest, but she proved to be too much. The Moores began inviting me over regularly for Sunday dinner, and after I dined there on two consecutive Sundays in January of that year, I was almost convinced it was more than pity on a hungry bachelor that was prompting their hospitality. After I was invited on the third Sunday, I knew it was no coincidence. As smitten as I was, I decided it was now or never.
~~~
On that particular Sunday afternoon, Ellen and I bantered over dumplings and apple pie, and when the dishes were put away, we gathered in the parlor to play some games. My head was far from the game on the table, and rather, continued to direct my mouth in laying down the verbal pieces of a game of far greater significance to me. I flirted scandalously with Ellen; I goaded, insulted, complimented, flattered—everything I could think of to see if I could reveal a chink in her composure or elicit some sort of reaction, but she remained serenely unflappable, coloring slightly at times, but usually quick with a retort, or else she clamped her mouth shut and ignored my witticisms, as one pretends not to notice a yappy little dog circling and nipping at the heels. All the while I was anxiously hoping I could scrape up the nerve to talk to her father, and praying an opportunity to buttonhole him would arise.
Later that afternoon, the preacher and Joseph buried themselves in coats and hats and let themselves out to tend to the few cows, horses, and smaller livestock that called their barns home. I abruptly excused myself from a game of dominoes, threw my own coat and accoutrements on, and trudged out to the barn, my palms sweating despite the chilly wind, my mind arranging and rearranging words in my mind like you shuffle Scrabble letters. I strung words like “love,” “court,” “Ellen,” and “marry” together, frantically trying to reach the most effective combination before reaching the barn.
The daylight was failing and soon it would be time for the evening service at church. The preacher was rationing out oats to his team of horses near me, while Joseph freshened the bedding for their milk cow at the opposite end of the barn.
“Robert!” the preacher greeted me, looking a little surprised to see me, but then his look relaxed, and it almost seemed he perceived the purpose of my visit.
“Need a hand with anything?” I looked around to see if there was something handy I could put my hand to, yet still keep a close proximity.
“No, we’ve pretty much got this covered,” he replied. “This isn’t exactly the King Ranch we’re running here,” he added wryly. I snorted out an odd-sounding chuckle and hoped I didn’t sound too strained or ill at ease. How do I start this?
“How old is he?” I nodded toward the horse snuffling through the pile of oats in front of us.
“Twelve,” he replied, roughly scratching the heavy bay gelding’s mane between the ears as he eagerly lipped the oats into his mouth. Should I start now?
“Looks good, for that age,” I commented lamely, shifting my weight nervously from foot to foot now.
“Um-hmm,” the preacher agreed tepidly. Is he angry? I looked askance and saw what looked to be an amused expression on his face, but the dim light made it hard to tell. The lingering silence was painful.
“I-uh . . . I need to talk to you about something, sir,” I finally ventured, stiffly leaning up against the wall, all the while trying to look at ease. Another pregnant silence.
“Well, I’m listening, Robert,” he said, and now I could see an unholy amusement tugging the corners of his mouth. It seemed he knew what I wanted and found it entertaining to see me squirm!
“It’s about your daughter, sir,” I proffered cautiously.
“Esther?” he queried with furrowed brow, referring to his daughter of six or seven. He was concealing his mirth badly now. He knew it, too, and turned away and scrutinized the work Joseph was doing. I was now feeling a little foolish for being so timid and allowing him to play with my emotions like I was a child. Emboldened by the thought, I grabbed the edge of the trough firmly as I assumed a much looser stance, and decided to quit beating around the bush and grab the bull by the horns.
“Ellen,” I said, “I’d like your permission to court Ellen.”
“Hmm,” he responded, feigning surprise as he turned back to face me.
“And what would be your motive for requesting this privilege?” he challenged, looking me in the eye.
“I love her, sir,” I said, with no hesitation.
“Ah, of course,” he smiled, his tone ridiculing my statement ever so slightly. I didn’t know what to say. He allowed a minute of silence to linger. The only sounds were the gelding munching and the pounding of blood in my ears.
“Do you know when I began loving my wife, Robert?” he asked me, serious now. I shook my head. By now Joseph had caught on that we were having something of a personal discussion and had made himself scarce.
“During our third year of marriage, when Ellie and Joseph were just babies,” he began, looking down as he pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Caroline got a case of smallpox, and she had it so bad, you could almost smell the Grim Reaper’s breath, he was that close. And I nursed her, and I cared for our babies, and I fell on my knees and begged God and cried for hours that he’d spare her life. And he did. Now I’ve never been quite sure whether I cared for her and about her because I loved her, or if I really began to truly love her because of the unending, unbearable weeks of sacrifice I made for her, but after that, I felt such an unbelievably strong love for her that I couldn’t have begun to fathom before then.” He stopped, wiping a tear off the end of his nose, his cold lips forming a stiff, thin smile. After hearing his story, I felt a little silly for using the word love so carelessly.
“Do you still think you love her?” he probed, curious, not challenging now. I deliberated a little in my mind and finally pieced together a fitting answer.
“No, sir,” I shook my head, “but I like her plenty, and she’s a fine girl. And the way I see it, I could learn to love her easier than any other girl I can think of.”
He dispelled the tension with a low laugh that I imagined gurgled up his esophagus like a burp. I laughed too, relieved that the mood had lightened. I still expected a rigorous cross-examination, but I suppose he must have been adequately convinced of my integrity, because he said, “Well, now I guess it’s just up to you to persuade Ellie,” and smiled at me the way I’d always wished my father had.
High on clearing the first hurdle, I cockily responded, “Oh, that shouldn’t be so hard!” My bravado was substantially outpacing my bravery, however, and I immediately began steeling my heart for asking Ellen. It would be one thing if her father rejected me, but quite another to have the object of my desire outright refuse me.
“Well, go along,” he nodded toward the house.
I turned to go, trying to swallow a grapefruit of angst as I walked back toward the house with fear and trembling. At that moment I began to understand what a woman is.
A woman is a terrifying thing. A woman is a velvet hammer that softly pounds your will from around your heart, leaving it b
are, vulnerable, defenseless. When a woman gives you her heart, she gives with it the feeling that you are the sole monarch of an infinitely precious domain. A woman is drink, a tonic to one, poison to another. A two-edged sword that can mince the strongest heart, or surgically repair the fainting one. A woman can inflate the value of your life to unfathomable worth, or make you wish you’d given up the habit of living long before you met her. A woman is a driving rain that drowns your spirit, or a refreshing sprinkler of sustenance to your soul. A woman is the sun; the power of life and death are in her hands.
A feeling of absolute helplessness pummeled my guts as I took off my coat and boots. My destiny was in her hands, and it seemed my mind, soul, and body rebelled at the thought of having so little say-so in how this was all going to end.
Mrs. Moore and Ellen had started with supper. I walked into the kitchen and stood in the middle of the floor, feeling awkward, conspicuous, and unsure.
“Hungry?” Mrs. Moore smiled at me as she transferred a steaming pot of cooked potatoes from the stove to the strainer.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied woodenly, failing to recognize that at the moment, my throat was so tight I couldn’t have shoved a pea down it with a ramrod.
I moved to the table where Ellen was slicing bread and pulled out a chair, but didn’t sit down. I stood indecisively, not wanting to talk to her around anyone else, but not sure what to say when I did. She looked up briefly from her work and smiled at me, her hands never stopping. A gold necklace draped her smooth neck, the opal pendant nestled like an inlay in the nook of her collarbone, which looked like an elegant embossing, strong and beautiful. She noticed me staring and looked again, and I wanted to avert my eyes, but knew it would look juvenile, so I held her gaze as she looked at me with a pleasant look of perplexity. The time was now.
“Can I talk with you, you know, uh, alone?” I asked, so nervous I feared she might feel my pulse through the floor. She quickly masked her initial look of realization and unease with an expression would have passed for calm if she hadn’t reddened slightly and bit her bottom lip nervously as she hung up her apron and excused herself. I followed her into the empty parlor. She turned to face me, but we both didn’t sit down.
“So I, uh, was talking to your pa,” I began, looking down at my hands as I picked away at a loose thread on the arm of the red and gold sofa we were standing beside.
“Uh-huh,” she said, her eyes showed a hint of pity for me and encouraged me along. I decided I at least needed to be man enough to look her in the eye, so I didn’t look down again, just stared straight into her soul.
“Well, he said it would be alright by him if I courted you,” I unloaded.
“Uh-huh,” she said again, looking more relaxed now.
“And so I was just wondering if, if . . .” Drat! As badly as I wanted to ask her flat out if she wanted to go with me, I just kept thinking that the more directly I phrased things, the more directly I could be refused, so I switched horses in midstream and tried to be a little humorous.
“I was wondering if maybe I could set an appointment to ask you if you’d like me to court you,” I propositioned safely. A smile flitted briefly over her face, like the shadow of a bird is there and gone, and you wonder if you really saw it at all.
“Why certainly, Mr. Mattox!” she replied, the anxiety having been replaced with her usual coolness. “Does Sunday after next, at two o’clock, work for you?” she queried.
Befuddled by her reaction, I struggled to regain my mental footing and managed a delayed, “Yes, yes, that will be fine,” trying not to look too stunned that she hadn’t caught on to the absurdity of my suggestion. A dopey smile not unlike the one her father had been wearing only 20 minutes previously played on her lips, and finally, it broke into a broad smile and she laughed a throaty, contagious laugh I was sure I could listen to until the trumpet sounded.
“Robbie!” she chided softly. “Of course I’ll be your girl!” She moved in closer to me, her chin tilted slightly up as her eyes invited my touch.
“That makes me a—a very happy man,” I smiled at her, keeping my tone low, as she gently bumped the full bust of her dress up against me, deliberately, carelessly, like a drunk might ease his car against the bumper of another before coming to a stop. My hands gripped the tops of her arms where they met her shoulders as I drank in the smell of her perfume.
“You have strong hands, Robbie,” she said, and I sheepishly relaxed my hold on her, scolding myself for handling a woman with the same grip as I would a bull calf. She giggled.
“Kiss me,” she commanded, even as I was wondering if I was the only one in the room thinking about that. My arms slid down over silky waves of hair to rest on the small of her back. Hers rested on my shoulders, around my neck, and I pulled her in with no resistance. Not wanting to be presumptuous, I pressed my lips cautiously against her forehead, pinning a few rogue hairs between them. I kissed her again and kept my lips against her, holding her to me tightly. She moved her head back slightly and I reciprocated, just far enough so our eyes could focus on each other.
“Robbie,” she whispered, the sweet ambrosia of her breath battering my senses. She pushed her lips out toward me expectantly.
“But your pa—” I protested weakly, not wanting to cross any boundaries the preacher might not want me to.
“Robbie!” she breathed impatiently, and I sensed this was not the moment she had planned for discussing ethical matters, so I tentatively leaned forward and lipped the full, pink softness of her mouth. My body almost shook with desire. My mind felt utterly helpless as it got swept away in a current of passion, yet my body felt invincibly potent and virile as I held her to me. Someone called that supper was ready, and we parted reluctantly, breathlessly.
“Am I the only one feeling a little dizzy?” she whispered to me as we walked to the kitchen.
“I do believe I’m a wee bit intoxicated at the moment,” I said, letting out a boyish giggle that almost had me looking around to see if there was a ventriloquist nearby. She laughed. She was beautiful.
~~~
And so like a reckless garden our love grew. Like spindly seedlings we sprouted branchlet and tendril that twined and tangled hopelessly around each other, until our spirits were raveled together in an inextricable embrace. Heedlessly our hearts intertwined, thinking never of the agony separation might bring, but striving always to cling the more closely to the other.
Spring conquered winter, and as the schoolchildren shed coat and cap and sweater, so I bared my soul to Ellen until it would have shivered, if not for the warmth of her acceptance. I bashfully shared my journalistic aspirations with her, and rather than deprecating them, she listened approvingly and smiled as she offered encouragement, and told me of her unwavering belief in me. With her I could seemingly reveal more of myself than I myself knew; sometimes it seemed just talking to her about growing up with Moses, Ma’s death, or whatever, dredged up deep feelings from my emotional well to the surface where I could see them and identify them for what they were. And in anger or sadness, Ellen would always offer a comforting word or touch that was like a cool hand to a fevered forehead, and she would calm my stormy spirit with her quiet eyes. She became my confidante, the only one I had ever trusted with thoughts I hardly trusted to say out loud when I was alone.
Our courtship flourished into the summer under the watchful eye of Preacher Moore. Too watchful, it sometimes seemed. At times it felt we had little room to breathe, and even the time we spent alone was rife with an inordinate number of “chance” interruptions that I found a little aggravating. I put enough stock in my own character to be a little insulted to think that the preacher didn’t trust me alone with his daughter. Though his seeming distrust rankled me at times, one summer evening I did receive a little glimpse into his mind, a glimpse that made me think of him like less of a preacher, and more like an ordinary man.
~~~
I was picking Ellen up to go into town for ice cream, and Preacher Moore
was sitting on the porch, Bible in lap, sweaty glass of iced tea in hand, as I stood waiting for Ellen to join me outside.
She emerged in a sky blue sundress, a matching ribbon in her hair, a veritable vision in blonde and blue.
I turned to follow her, and he said, “Robert.” I stopped, and he motioned her on toward the car. She continued walking, and when she was a dozen paces away, I responded, “Sir?”
“You treat her like a gentleman,” he said, in a gruffer tone than I’d ever heard him use on anyone. I could feel my face get warm, wondering if he’d witnessed a stolen kiss, though any onlooker would surely perceive Ellen to be a most willing accomplice.
“Yes, sir, I’ll be sure to,” I tried not to stammer. I stood there, kneading the air with my right hand, as I tried to determine whether that was the extent of his admonition, or if more waited in the wing.
Sensing my unease, he cleared his throat as though rasping the edge off his voice, and attempted an inspiriting smile.
“I was young once, too, you know,” he said mellowly, and I understood he was trying to tell me that he was “a man of like passions” as me, and knew the feeling only a man knows, when his lips fuse with those of the woman he loves. He knew the rush, the surge of blood to the parts of the body with the poorest decision-making ability. He knew the strongest man can be brought down by the weakest woman, and the purest of intentions can be tainted in a moment of infatuation.
Understanding then that he identified with the temptations of someone in my position and stage of life, I bid him good-bye without rancor and joined Ellen in the car. We were both silent until we reached the road. She looked at me quizzically.
“So, what was that all about?” she asked.
“He told me to treat you like a gentleman,” I replied soberly, still ruminating about our little chat.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 6
